We machine sadness; hone the lives of our knives and sharpen our dances to slice into the watery selves of these silks that we wave about. We choreograph the movements of alphabets, shading the letters with all the wet and hard and broken things that we find in our insides. And then? We cry out, spilling them onto the floor.
I walk out of the house and I cannot remember where I am going but still, I go there.
(I normally shy away from posting anything that has even a whiff of the political, but after our inglorious leader's so-called "proclamation" yesterday, I felt like.....well, like I wanted to say this again.....cuz I already said it, yes, here we are.....) (and it has been at least a little while....) For those who burn and those who do the burning.... (originally published, April 17, 2018, in honor of David S. Buckel, and all who burn....) (I promised to steer clear of politics after this for a long while...) (So much for promises....guess that's another thing we can kiss goodbye in 2020....) It's like somebody said, “what’s the worst that could happen?” and somebody else said, “this guy. this guy could happen.” and somebody else said, “naw. that guy will never happen.” and somebody else said, “in your dreams.” and somebody else said, “in your worst nightmare.” and somebody else said, “good thing it won’t really happen.” and somebody else said, “oh, shit.” and somebody else said, “it happened.” and somebody else said, “well, how much worse could it get?” and somebody else said, “don’t jinx it.” and somebody else said, “what’s that in his hand?” and somebody else said, “it looks like a gas-can.” and somebody else said, “surely, even he wouldn’t.” and somebody else said, “what’s that in his other hand?” and somebody else said, “shit. it looks like a box of matches.” and somebody else said, “surely he wouldn’t.” and somebody else said, “run!” and somebody else said, "I don't have anywhere to run." (For David S. Buckel and for Syria, for whatever it's worth)
this is not spoken word. these are words, spoken. ~ this is not slam, this is the door. this is the window. this is the glaze. this is the breeze brought across your skin. this is the wind on the water and the breath on the surface. this is the ripple. ~ this is the breath of the earth brought to the sky. this is the surface where the landscape is seen. this is the landscape where we all wander. this is the place where we all are lost and this is the only place where we will ever find each other. ~ this is living a vibrant adage. this is living on a verdant ledge. this is living on that vibrating edge. ~ this is not my body. this is my voice. this is vibration brought into being. this is my mind pushing a column of air, somewhere. this is sound shaped into meaning. this is me breathing, in you. this is muscle and cavity, moving. this is diaphragm, lung, larynx, tongue, lips and jaw. these are my words in your mouth. this is my world in the mouth of your mind. ~ this is not performance, this is incantation. ~ this is where body touches mind. this is where meaning is born and this is where meaning dies. this is not finding meaning in a story. this is making a story mean something. this is not seeking meaning. this is living meaning and this is making all these things mean something. this is not seeking, this is making. this is mind making myth. this is myth-making mind. this is making myth mind. this is myth making mind and this is making me (into) a myth. ~ this is not ritual, this is invocation. ~ this is not some thing, this is something lived. this is some but not all. this is the sum. this is the current. this is the slow movement of mind and this movement is not mine. this is the company of misery. this is the beat of the beaten. this is the brand of the new. this is the spent cartridge, the smell of sulphur and a cloud of rust in a sepia sky. this is blood sucked straight from the sand. this is the tatters of the temple’s torn curtain. ~ this is pure speculation. this is mind ore. this is the whore of the mind doing its helical mambo. this is me fucking me. this is what it means. this is what “it” means. and this is all there is. this is all there is. this is all there is. ~~~~~ (I began this piece sometime in 2015 and have tinkered with it on and off ever since. As happens often with me, I get tired of looking at things or I don't know what else to do with them and so I abandon them here....
“Poems are never finished – just abandoned”
I. A little girl sits on a bench, swings her legs and reads from her book of a thousand and one jokes. I glimpse, in that act, a young woman, and I am thrilled and deeply shaken at once. II. A look crosses a woman’s face, flashes for less than a moment, too fast to be more than barely seen. The girl that once was comes passing through a passing thought and is caught —only not caught— and gone before she is known for what she is or what she was, left with only the memory of an expression of memory passed beneath the surface. The little girl is gone. III. A little boy cries out from an old man’s face, the sad one, the lost one, the last one, beyond comprehension of a hard-won heart. The learned self-given healing —even that— is gone. Pain as can only be known to a child is carried on and on, a burden that one never wants to open. IV. A son is asked by his father —but it is the cry of the lost boy, ripped from somewhere deep in the old man’s throat— “Will you be my mommy?” How can a son answer this, when his father does the asking? Is this what it feels like to be born? To lose forever the warmth that is still (but now only) known from within? We find us both lost past longing and long past lost. Incomprehensible why this happens to any of us, this slap that is existence. A son is carried by his father for so many years that he is shocked to realize he is no longer being carried, surprised to find himself standing with his own legs under him. V. A little girl sits on a bench, swings her legs and reads her book of a thousand and one jokes. I glimpse, in that act, a young woman, and I am thrilled and deeply shaken at once.